Rebirth
by Ssenillek Reh
Summary: Official HIATUS - sorry guys. My name is Harry Potter. A psychopath is out for my blood, my headmaster has a sock fetish, my godfather died by falling through a veil, and I go to a school for the magically gifted. But I'm not insane. Really.
1. Hello

**Disclaimer:** Good thing I don't own Harry Potter. With my penchant for angst, he'd be dead fairly quickly.  
**Post Date:** 15 August 2006

**Revision Date:** 21 June 2009

* * *

_Don't try to fix me  
I'm not broken_

_Hello__, __**Evanescence**_

_**

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**_

**Chapter One: Hello**

I'm not depressed.

Really, I'm not.

Okay, so here's the basics:

There's this madman out for my blood… well, my life, anyway, since he's got my blood already, but we'll get to that later. So, this psycho, he killed my parents when I was one, so of course I don't remember them at all. He tried to kill me too, of course, but failed because my mother died protecting me or some such nonsense (not that I'm complaining, or anything). So, since the curse failed, I got this stupid curse scar on my forehead, making me bloody famous, and he got to spend thirteen years as a bodiless spirit. I honestly think he got the better deal on that one. But that's neither here nor there.

Since I was an already-famous, newly-orphaned baby with an ugly gash on his head (and because Dumbledore is the most oblivious bastard you'll **ever** have the misfortune to meet), the Headmaster of Hogwarts thought it bloody **brilliant** to send me to live with my maternal aunt, her husband, and her pig of a son.

Never mind the fact that they hated my parents and everything else to do with the Wizarding World (which I didn't find out about until my eleventh birthday, **thank**youverymuch) and, therefore, hated me as well. They thought me a horrible burden, so I got the pleasure of doing all the household chores, cooking for my so-called relatives (who don't even deserve to be called relatives, really) while not getting to eat anything myself, living in a cupboard under the stairs for the first eleven years of my life, and getting terribly abused by them as well, in hopes that my "freakishness" would squash itself out of me.

How's **that** for the Wizarding World's fucking saviour, Albus?

So. Every year at Hogwarts (except third year), I've met some form of Voldemort. First year, he was possessing the back of my horribly incompetent Defence teacher's head. Second year, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting his oh-so-wonderful sixteen-year-old self through the means of a demented diary and my best friend's little sister. I didn't meet him again in third year – oh, no, I was lucky enough to be able to help out the convicted escapee of Azkaban (though innocent) who was – what do ya know? – my godfather, and I was also privileged enough to learn more than I **ever** wanted to know about dementors. Fourth year, I was graciously allowed to witness (and take part in, unwilling though I was) the actual resurrection of Lord Voldemort. That was where he got my blood, by the way. And fifth year? I fell fool to Voldemort's stupid trap and ended up one of many factors contributing to the death of my godfather.

But I'm not depressed. **Really**.

How the fuck do you die by falling behind a stupid veil, anyway?

My stomach hurts too much to cry anymore.

… Damnit, I **am** depressed.


	2. Kryptonite

**Post Date:** 17 June 2008

**Revision Date: **21 June 2009

_

* * *

If I go crazy,  
__then will you still call me__ Superman?  
__If I'm alive and well,  
__will you be there  
__holding my hand?__  
I'll keep you by my side  
with my superhuman might_

_Kryptonite__, __**3 Doors Down

* * *

**_

**Chapter Two: Kryptonite**

Some people think I'm crazy.

I'm not; not really.

I mean, yeah, sure, the curse scar on my forehead gives me a link to the Dark Lord that's currently trying to destroy practically all Wizarding kind, so I can feel his thoughts and emotions, among other things. And, yeah, I love – loved – my godfather to death (literally), even though he's the supposed betrayer of my parents and the reason they're both dead. And, of course, I've got the self-esteem issues of a house elf (even though I fully blame the Dursleys for that).

But I'm not crazy.

I mean, I **can't** be. Merlin **forbid** if the Wizarding World's saviour is insanely twisted.

No. He's **Harry Potter**, the Boy-Who-Lived, the epitome of Gryffindor, Perfect Potter, firmly ensconced in the Light, without a trace of Darkness in his entire being. He's the saviour who will vanquish the Dark Lord and save the entire Wizarding World from their doom.

Crazy isn't in the job description. Sorry to disappoint.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if I'm not crazy after all. It certainly feels like it at times, let me tell you. The times when my head feels as if it's about to burst with all the stupid emotions I have – grief, anger, guilt, and the like – and I just want to fucking **scream** at the entire world… those are the times where I feel like nothing's going to be all right again, that nothing's going to turn out okay and that everyone's doomed. Sounds a little pessimistic, doesn't it?

But I can't be pessimistic. Harry Potter isn't pessimistic. He's a bloody optimist, seeing the good within the bad, finding hope where others find despair, laughing when the world looks bleak. Merlin forbid he give up hope. Because we all know what would happen if the Saviour gives up hope.

The Wizarding World will crumble.

Not that I would complain. The leaders of the Wizarding World are idiots, doing things for the good of themselves and only thinking of the people when there's something in it for them.

It's too bad that I'm supposed to be one of those leaders. Ha. Yeah, right. I wouldn't ever become a willing figurehead for the Wizarding World even if you paid me.

Merlin knows I don't need the fucking money anyway.

I wonder, though, what the people of the Wizarding World would do if they thought their Saviour was crazy. Or Dark. Or anything that ruins their beautifully painted picture of what the Boy-Who-Lived should be. Would they ignore it, saying that he was doing it all for the betterment of the world as a whole? Or would they just turn on him, slander and ridicule him, lock him up and throw away the key without a care, never mind the fact that he's supposed to be the only one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord?

It's times like these when I wonder.

And it's times like these when I think I really **am** crazy, after all.


	3. I'm So Sick

**Post Date:** 25 June 2008

**Revision Date:** 21 June 2009

* * *

_I'm so sick,  
__infected with__  
where I live  
Let me live without this  
empty bliss, selfishness_…  
_I'm so sick_

_I'm So Sick__, __**Flyleaf

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**_

**Chapter Three: I'm So Sick**

So, I'm sitting by my window, watching the sun set, because it's about the only thing I can do that has any merit anymore. Writing to the Order of the Flaming Rooster every three days is just another bothersome chore that I have to put up with. Professor Lupin writes the letters to me, and they're usually nothing but "Hi Harry, hope everything's going okay, Sirius' death wasn't your fault, we'll probably see you soon, Love Remus" and that's it – he's obviously more depressed than I am. I don't get any letters from Ron or Hermione. I think they're too busy using their brains (and their tongues) for something far more satisfying than writing letters to the depressed Boy-Who-Lived – letters that would have nothing but useless drabble anyway, just like last summer. I don't mind. No letters are better than fake letters.

Anyway, I'm sitting at my desk and staring out at the fading sun, just thinking. Thinking has become an awfully dangerous thing for me. I tend to overthink things, and only stop when I've made myself dizzy by chasing my thoughts around in circles or when I've fallen asleep due to sheer exhaustion from staying up until the sun peeks over the horizon.

Dumbledore told me that I had to stay put at Number Four, Privet Drive because of the "special protection" (ha!) my family (double ha!) offers me. He said that because of the blood shared between myself and Aunt Petunia, identifying us as nephew and aunt, the blood wards around the house would protect me from harm.

Apparently, it doesn't. Protect me, I mean. If it was meant to protect me from harm, the Dursleys wouldn't have been able to get away with all the shit they've been doing to me for as long as I can remember. So it obviously doesn't protect me from the inhabitants of the house – only from outside intrusions. And how could Dumbledore not know the feelings the Dursleys have for anything weird or freakish? Not every family is a tight and caring family like the Weasleys, Dumbledore.

Strike one.

And how could he have not noticed? Aren't there supposed to be people watching my supposed family? Or are they only there to keep anyone from getting in? Does Dumbledore honestly think that since I'm their nephew and a fucking hero in the Wizarding World that they'll play nice with me and let me step all over them? He **had** to have known the relationship between Aunt Petunia and my mother. I mean, it's no secret that my aunt tries to pretend that she never even **had** a sister. She's hated my mother ever since Lily got her Hogwarts letter, and perhaps before – does Dumbledore honestly think that her views would change because she got her freak of a nephew dumped on her doorstep? I've never considered Number Four my home. It's just a place that I'm forced to live in until I'm of age and can move so fucking far away I won't even ever have to **think** about my aunt's family ever again.

Strike two, Dumbledore.

And – blood wards? Bullshit. Dumbledore explained to me that my mother's blood – and my blood, consequentially – is what's keeping Voldie and his Death Munchers from ripping the place limb from limb. But how is that so? Voldemort used my blood in the ritual to get himself back into a (not-so-)human body, so wouldn't the fact that my blood now runs in his veins negate the effect that the blood wards have on Number Four?

"Potter." A wand is pressed to the back of my neck. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Come willingly, or come Stunned. Your choice."

Strike three, Albus. Guess you're out.


	4. Perfect

**Post Date:** 6 July 2008

**Revision Date:** 21 June 2009

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_Perfect in weakness  
I'm only perfect in  
just your strength alone_

_Perfect__, __**Flyleaf

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**_

**Chapter Four: Perfect**

I sigh wearily and stand, ignoring the wand held at the back of my neck for now. "Hullo, sir," I offer to the person behind me as I tear my eyes away from the red hues of the dying sun.

"Get your things and let's go." The wand is pulled away from my neck, only to be jabbed into my back. I flinch, involuntarily, away from the touch and start to pack my things.

"Potter, are you…" I can almost hear the internal struggle for the right words. "Are you hurt?"

I pull away from the loose floorboard under my bed and stand, dusting myself off. I turn and give Professor Snape a slightly bitter smile. "Are you implying that my family might have done something to me, Professor?" Snape gives me his patented 'don't-play-dumb-you-blithering-idiot' look, and I continue sardonically. "Oh, no, of **course** not. Why would my family do a thing like **that**? They absolutely **adore** their precious little Saviour." I'm going to need a bucket to catch all the sarcasm dripping off my words.

Snape doesn't know whether to look amused at my words or horrified at the prospect of the Boy-Who-Lived's family abusing him. Finally, he decides to ignore me. "Finish packing. I'm to take you to my Lord's manor."

"Out of one hell, into another," I mutter, then louder, "So, sir, are you **really** Dumbledore's spy, or are you just pretending to be?"

Snape gives me another, though this time unreadable, look. "Why would I tell you a thing like that, Potter?" He sounds vaguely annoyed. Oh well.

I snort. "Oh, **please**. You think I'm going to **tell** him? What the fuck gave you that idea?"

"Language, Harry," a voice murmurs from the doorway. Lord Voldemort is standing there, in all his snake-like glory.

"English," I respond, not really caring if I piss him off or not. A snort comes from Snape. Is he **laughing** at me? "You think you could shrink this for me?" I ask Voldemort, gesturing to my trunk, neatly packed. "Only I'm not supposed to do magic outside of school." I frown. When has that stopped me before?

The Dark Lord looks at me for a moment, searching for something. I raise an eyebrow at him and stare back, unimpressed. He shrugs after a moment and waves a hand at my trunk; it shrinks to the size of a galleon and floats toward me. I pluck it from the air and pocket it, ignoring the superior look Voldemort throws at me.

I look around the room, seeing if there's anything I'm forgetting. A hoot draws everyone's attention to the window and Hedwig flutters in and flies over to land on my shoulder. I get a sudden idea and grin, heading for the desk.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Voldemort asks, frowning. I ignore him (and his puzzlingly gentle tone) and pull out a pencil and a piece of lined paper from a drawer and start to write. I doubt that Dumbledore will understand the baseball reference (though he just might understand it, insane old codger that he is), but I can't resist the temptation:

_**You've got three strikes against you, Albus.**_

_**Looks like you're out.**_

_**Ta.**_

I leave it laying there on the desk, where anyone could find it – unless they were blind, of course. Voldemort, who came to look over my shoulder and see what I was writing, smirks amusedly, almost as if he can read my thoughts, before beckoning me to follow him out the door. Snape follows behind us, closing the door and locking it. I wince every time I hear one of the locks sliding into place – ten, in all. Bastard Dursley.

Voldemort notices and gives me a questioning look. I can see the worry, though. Why the hell is he worrying about me? I just shrug in response.

"Where are the Dursleys?" I ask as we descend the stairs. Voldemort points to the family room. I walk over and look in, already knowing what I would find.

Vernon is lying, stone cold dead, in the entrance to the family room, as if he were trying to protect his son and wife from the horrors Lord Voldemort bestows upon his victims. Petunia is lying in a heap by the couch. It looks like she was running for cover behind the sofa before Voldemort got to her. She looks just as dead as Vernon, but with the signs of torture as well. I look around for Dudley and see him by the wall next to the fireplace. He must have been trying to disappear into the wall again. He shows the telltale signs of torture, too, his body surrounded by a mixture of blood and piss.

I lean against the doorway, trying to absorb the fact that my family, my abusers, are dead. It's a happy thought, but it's taking some time to sink in. Maybe because they've been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, and now, suddenly, they're gone…

Voldemort rests a hand on my shoulder and I flinch away from the touch. I spare one last glance for my dead relatives before turning around to face my kidnappers (rescuers?). I see concern marring both their faces. What the fuck?

"That was me, pretending to care," I inform them coolly. "I'm over it. Where to?"

Voldemort blinks at my words and Snape actually looks shocked at my tone, but both of them hide their surprise quickly. "We will be Apparating to a safe house, to throw off anyone trying to follow us, then to my manor home," Voldemort responds.

I raise an eyebrow. "I assume, then, that you are Apparating me with you, since I cannot Apparate myself." It wasn't a question.

Voldemort nods. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Snape giving me a calculating look.

"Let's go, then."


	5. Hotel Paper

**Post Date:** 21 June 2009

**A/N (or, the major sucking up of a sheepish writer):** Holy flying fruitcakes, Batman! So late. So, so late. - Oops? No internet equals kind of a bummer - though it has given me an opportunity to read more books, I admit - if you are ever in need of good stimulation of the written word, Agatha Christie and Robert Ludlum are two amazing authors - not to mention one of my all-time favorites, Stephen King. But, I digress. Sorry about the wait - almost a year, wow. Lots of changes - first and foremost, namely, that graduation passed last week, so we're all looking forward to some semblance of freedom from the hell that is high school. Anyway, still no internet - I know, I know. Bollocks, right? Luckily enough, I've found a little cafe not too far from my house (yay, small communities!) with free wi-fi, so I have a feeling I'll be spending a lot of time there until I get my own bloody connection back. Toodles, and sorry again for the monstrous wait.

* * *

_Lately I can't be happy  
for no one  
They think that I need  
some time to myself  
I try to smile but  
I can't remember  
I know tomorrow  
there'll be nothing else_

_Hotel Paper__, __**Michelle Branch

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**_

**Chapter Five: Hotel Paper**

I blink in surprise as we step outside of my prison – there's a whole horde of Death Eaters standing there, apparently waiting for their Lord's signal. He nods to them, and all but two Disapparate out of sight with the faintest of cracks.

I look around at Voldemort and raise another eyebrow, asking a silent question.

Voldemort gets an amused spark in his eye and responds, "I wanted someone whom you were familiar with accompanying me inside to retrieve you."

I nod, eyeing one of the Death Eaters cautiously. "And Mr. Malfoy isn't a familiar face?" I murmur. I can see him shifting uncomfortably, the question on his mind practically screaming at me – _'How did the brat know it was me?'_

Voldemort smirks now. "One whom you were more familiar with, at any rate, even if you two did not part… on the best of terms, shall we say."

I snort at his severe understatement and let my eyes wander to the other, nameless Death Eater.

"Rodolphus Lestrange, Mr. Potter," he says to me, taking off his white mask and revealing grinning blue eyes. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Is it now?" I ask, cocking my head to one side. His grin doesn't falter, and I smile back in response. "Then a pleasure to make yours as well, I suppose."

Voldemort clears his throat, impatient. "Save the pleasantries for a later time, if you please. We must get going, unless you **want** to get caught by the coot?" He phrases it as a question, letting us believe we have a choice in the matter. I'm not fooled. I may be depressed, or crazy, or most likely both, but I am **far** from stupid.

I sigh dramatically – if I **am** crazy, may as well start acting the part now. "Very well, O Great Snake, lead me to my impending doom," I tell him, holding my hands out in a semblance of waiting for them to be cuffed. For my theatrics, I get a snort of laughter each from Snape and Malfoy, a chuckle from Rodolphus, and a raised eyebrow from Voldemort, though I can tell he is amused as well.

"You should be an actor," Voldemort muses, and before I have time to respond, he nods to the three remaining Death Eaters and Disapparates without a sound.

The world is spinning before my eyes, and I sit down, hard, before my body collapses from under me. I feel more than hear Voldemort squat down next to me.

"Harry?" **Why** is everyone so worried about me all of a sudden? I've lasted this long; what makes them think I'm going to keel over just because I'm on some tripped-out carousel ride for demons?

"Your must inefficient luck for things never turning out as they're expected around you, of course," Voldemort says to me, sounding amused, and I'm confused by his statement until I realise that I've spoken my thoughts aloud.

"Of course," I mutter sarcastically. "Could you maybe, I dunno, give me a **warning** the next time you feel the need to squish my lungs together?"

Voldemort actually chuckles this time and helps me up. "Can do, Harry. Stay here a moment; I'm going to make sure everyone got back safely." And he's off.

I blink after him. "Sure, why not," I respond to the air next to me. I take in my surroundings and realize that we're in a forest of some type somewhere. I bet the safehouse Voldemort mentioned earlier is just in the direction he took off in. Or not. Bloody Dark Lord is probably just as paranoid as I am, if not more so.

I drop back to the ground, not sure why I got up in the first place, and idly trace patterns in the dirt with my fingers. There's a snitch. And a quill. And there's a turret. And here's a broom. And there's a –

"What are you drawing, Harry?"

– snake.

"Ah. Well, come on, then. You're probably hungry."

I give Voldemort a strange look and stand, wiping my hands on my clothes. "No," I say finally, scooting closer to him.

Now **he** gives **me** an odd look. "You're not?"

I shrug dismissively. "Haven't been. You get used to it, with people like the Dursleys assigned to watch over you."

His eyes blaze at the mention of the Dursleys, then darken even more when the meaning of my statement hit him. He looks searchingly at me. When he realises that I'm not going to talk, he says, "Later, you and I are going to discuss what your childhood was **really** like."

I nod resignedly – I don't have any other option, really. He grabs my arm and Disapparates us to his manor home.

I don't really pay attention to what Voldemort is saying to me as he leads me through his colossal mansion. My mind is too busy spinning from the effects of the Apparition and the events of the day to even begin to try and process what the Dark Lord is rambling about.

I don't know if he knows if I'm listening to him or not, and I don't care. All I know is that I am in desperate need of sleep. And painkillers.

Voldemort stops outside one of the many doors on Merlin knows what level of the manor and turns to face me. "These are going to be your rooms for the duration of your stay," he informs me. "You may alter them to your desires and if you require something, you need only ask."

He takes in my dazed state and gives me a sort of half-smile. "Sleep well, Harry," he offers before sweeping around a corner and out of sight.

I stand there in the middle of the hallway for a minute before I finally convince my limbs to move. I step inside the rooms, not really sure what I'm going to find.

Holy **shit**. They're a hell of a lot bigger than my rooms at the Dursleys, that's for sure.

I take my miniaturized trunk out of my pocket and drop it to the ground, only mildly surprised when it resizes itself upon impact with the ground. I walk over to the desk carefully, still unsteady, and bemusedly notice heaps of paper, lined and unlined, with quills, pencils, and more drawing utensils than I'll ever know what to do with. I stare at it for a few minutes before dragging myself into the ginormous bed, intent on getting a few decent hours of sleep.

Who the **fuck** told Voldemort about my artistic abilities?


	6. Savior

**Post Date: **19/20 December 2009 (I've got the flu, and I'm being kept up with a bloody nose, and I really don't care to check the time. DX)

**A/N (or, the major sucking up of a sheepish writer, _the sequel_ - damn, do I need to get better at this!):** Okay, so still not having internet? Yeah, still sucks. Bigtime. The good news is that I've managed to get ahead in writing for this baby (and no, I won't say how far - I'll never hear the end of it, else), and the plot's coming along quite nicely, I must say. Anyhow, I'll be at my father's for the few days after Christmas, so expect another update then (I know, barely a week away! Aren't we proud? - Just watch, something happens and I don't update. -dead-)

In other news, the chapters are still incredibly short, which is only now starting to bug me, so I apologise to those of you who've complained about it (and, while I'm semi- on the subject anyhow, I **_do_** read every review - the problem is responding to them -sheepish-), but we're rolling into my favourite territory in the story - I'm giddy with this bit and the parts that come up soon, they were so much fun to write. I love this Harry. XD

So, ta, and I'll be seeing everyone around Christmas. -knocks on wood-

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_Until you see, how could you believe?  
__Until you've lived a thousand times  
__Until you've seen the other side  
__This is my chance_

_Savior__, __**30 Seconds to Mars**_

**Chapter Six: Savior**

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I wake only several hours later, my body too used to forcing itself awake in order to keep from screaming at the nightmares.

I notice a tray on my bedside table filled with an assortment of foods. Thinking about it makes me feel sick, so I turn my attention to the note stuck on the tray:

_**You're probably not hungry, but you should eat something anyway.**_

_**I'll be back in a few hours; we'll talk then.**_

There wasn't a name at the bottom. There didn't need to be.

Deciding to worry about the meeting between Voldemort and myself after I had woken up fully, I turn my attention back to the breakfast. A bowl of porridge. A dish of fruit. A glass of milk.

My stomach lurches horribly. The last time I had eaten was a week and a half ago.

Damn those Dursleys for existing.

**Why** had I never done anything about them, again?

Oh, wait. That's right.

Dumbledore.

Never mind, then.

I sigh and run a hand through my already mussed hair, inspecting the room Voldemort gave me a little more closely than I had last night (or was it this morning?). The walls are a warm cream colour with soft blue accents, completely the opposite of what one would expect a room in the Dark Lord's manor house to look like. A humongous bay window, almost as big as the wall it was in, lays sprawling open, revealing grassy green hills and the sweet breeze and scent that lie in congruence with the ocean. I find myself currently sitting in a huge bed made of dark cherry wood, complete with sheets, blankets and pillows that matched the rest of the room's soft hues. A nightstand accompanies the bed, carved of the same wood, while a beautiful desk and armoire, also made of cherry, sit against opposing walls. Three doors rest in three different walls, and I can only guess that one is a bathroom and another is the way out into the rest of the home. All in all, it looks like a four-star hotel room, not residency in the mansion of Lord Voldemort.

As I sit comfortably, ignoring the slow deterioration of the food left for me in favour of inspecting the room I was placed in, the door directly opposite the bed opens, allowing Voldemort to poke his great ugly snake-face in the open space between door and wall. He looks pleased upon finding me awake and seemingly coherent, but scowls heavily when he sees the tray of food untouched.

"That breakfast wasn't put there so you could stare at it, boy," he says nastily, and while I feel absolutely disgusted with myself at being unable to suppress the flinch at the name, Voldemort's features soften noticeably, though his eyes narrow.

"I know food is the last thing on your mind," he amends, his voice a bit less harsh, "but you'll only lose more strength if you refuse nutrition."

"Speaking from personal experience, are we?" I can't help but throw at him. Voldemort looks at me then, and I mean really **looks** at me, before flicking his eyes away to something that won't stare back at him, but in those few moments, I am able to see the naked truth in those rubies, coupled with a deep understanding of the pain and humiliation that accompanies living with those who not only don't but **won't** understand you, _what it feels like to be worthless…_

I shake my head sharply, dispelling the strange thought. What the hell…?

Voldemort pulls himself out of whatever mental conflict he seems to be having with himself and answers my question with a frankness that, honestly, startles me more than I care to admit: "Yes, I am. And deterioration of your body from the inside is hardly something you should be doing to yourself out of some misplaced sense of guilt or responsibility. So please, **eat**."

I am quite sure that it is the _please_, more than anything, that makes me automatically spoon a glob of (surprisingly tasty) porridge in my mouth.

"We will… _discuss_… when you have finished."

My stomach lurches again at the thought, but I force myself to continue eating. And it's not Voldemort's stern look that makes me continue despite his horrid pronouncement – really, it's **not**.

This porridge is damn good, though.


	7. A Beautiful Lie

**Post Date:** 26/27 December 2009 (only a week after the last update! Consider this your holiday miracle, because I think I'm pretty safe in saying it'll never happen again - at least, not any time in the near future.)

**A/N:** Wowww, aren't you proud of me? XD Two updates in as many weeks. Plus, the grandfather and I are on (semi-)speaking terms again, as good as we'll ever get, and he's transferring my college fund to one of my own bank accounts (about damn time, if I may add), which means I WILL HAVE INTERNET. Maybe not right away, but soon. I'm so excited. XD

Anyhow, here's the next installment, and while it'll probably leave you with more questions than answers, it **_does_** start the answering of said questions. -sweat- As such, the next few chapters will be similar - sort of filler, see, so Harry can stop feeling like a clueless idiot. Cheers.

Well, happy insert-winter-holiday-of-your-choice-here, belated or not, and I hope everyone's had a jolly good time with it and all that rot. My flu's gone, but I've got a severe headcold, so I'm gonna go dope myself up on meds now. Enjoy.

* * *

_It's time to forget about the past  
__To wash away what happened last  
__Hide behind an empty face  
__Don't ask too much, just say  
_'_Cause this is just a game_

_A Beautiful Lie__, __**30 Seconds to Mars**_

**Chapter Seven: A Beautiful Lie**

* * *

"So."

I let out a rather huffy sigh, avoiding eye contact with Voldemort like the plague in favour of playing with the empty oatmeal bowl and accompanying spoon.

So, indeed.

Voldemort clears his throat, impatient. I continue to ignore him, somewhat amusedly noticing that for a Gryffindor, I'm being remarkably cowardly.

Then again, this is one subject I have absolutely **no** desire to discuss. At all. With anyone. **Ever**.

Voldemort huffs in a manner that suggests he has more than had it with my pointed pretending in his nonexistence. "Your… **family**," he sneers, "beat you."

I wince internally. The statement is viciously blunt. "Of course."

"Often?"

No tact. What happened to Slytherin subtlety?

"Astoundingly."

"Why?"

I peek up into the ruby orbs I'd been studiously avoiding and see only blatant curiosity.

"Why?" I counter; when Voldemort has the grace to look puzzled, I expand: "Why on earth do you care?"

Out of the million responses I could imagine, this one completely catches me by surprise, much as I loathe to admit (because it is a well-known fact, after all, that Harry Potter **despises** surprises) – Voldemort sighs raggedly and runs his hand over his eyes tiredly.

"I have a story for you," he informs me, and his voice sounds exhausted, weary, like he's seen too much of this lifetime to ever be satisfied with it. "But first… will you please answer my questions?"

I feel a surge of anger course through me, though not nearly in as epic proportions as the night Sirius died and Dumbledore revealed to me the Prophecy, that proverbial wrench thrown into my life just when I thought things couldn't get **any fucking worse**.

"**Why**?" I all but snarl at him. "Why all the questions? Why the fuck do you want to know about my shitty home life? What's to be gained from it? Why the fuck do you **care**?"

I realise that by this point, I am very nearly shouting, but the restraint I normally try to keep on my temper has all but evaporated by this point. "So the Dursleys beat me. They belittled me, starved me, made me believe that I'll never be anything more than a waste of space, a good-for-nothing **freak**. I was beaten bloody, raped, enslaved. **So what**? What could **anyone**, especially **you**, possibly gain from all this?"

Voldemort regards me, quite seriously, though an amused sort of glint is present in his eye. "Firstly, the connection we share isn't only one-way. You've been feeling absolutely wretched since the… **fiasco** at the Department of Mysteries, and that affects me, too. You, letting it all out, getting it off your chest… it helps **me** as well."

A-ha. There's the Heir of Slytherin I've been looking for. "So. You kidnapped me," here I hear a snort, positive that it's because of the term 'kidnapped,' while I willingly accompanied Great Snake-Face to his manor, "brought me here and got me to let out my big bad feelings of woeful despair so **you** could get a decent night's sleep?" Skepticism is abundant in my voice, and he hears it, too.

Voldemort actually looks a mite ashamed, as if yes, that **was** the reason for bringing me here, but his expression smoothes out clearly and he replies only with a maddeningly vague "Somewhat."

"Somewhat?"

"**Yes**. Somewhat."

"Oh, okay, thanks. Just checking – everything's **all** cleared up, now."

Voldemort glares at my heavy use of sarcasm, and I smile bitterly at him in response. He gives up after a moment, sighing one of those world-weary sighs again. It unnerves me slightly to hear and see that so very **human** expression, when I know that Voldemort is probably as inhumane as they come, whether by choice or by force.

"Do you suppose Dumbledore knew?"

I'm completely thrown for a loop. I blink. "What?"

"Dumbledore."

"Barmy old codger, yes. What about him?"

"Do you think he knew?"

"About?"

"You."

Can he get any more irritatingly opaque? He's nearly putting said Headmaster to shame.

"I reckon so. I mean, only the whole bloody world knows my name. See, it's got to do with this scar and this insignificant little event that took place on Halloween quite a few years ago…"

Voldemort rolls his eyes, and I can hear him grinding his teeth together from here. That surprises me – I never took Voldemort for a tooth-grinding kind of person. "No, idiot child. About you, your family… what they did to you."

Either he's worried about my reaction to the words "how they tortured you beyond belief and raped you, to boot," or he can't bring himself to say the words because of his own childhood.

It's probably the latter… or some strange mixture of both. I dunno.

"Dunno," I repeat aloud, in response to his question. "I mean, I'd like to think he doesn't. The naïve little kid in me hopes he has no clue. But, at the same time… how can he **not** know?"

Voldemort hums in response, and I can only assume he's agreeing with me.

Why am I being so civil with Voldemort?, I wonder suddenly. I should hate him for all he's done to me (and while I **know** how childish that sounds, I can't help it), but no such emotion is present. It's like nothing ever happened – like it's all been erased.

I repeat my question aloud to the Great Snake-Face – he really needs to do something about that – and his rejoinder throws me for an even further loop than before.

"Because with the death of your Godfather, all compulsions for hate you had toward me have dissolved."

And if that isn't the most confusing, convoluted answer I have **ever** heard…


	8. Everybody's Fool

**Post Date:** 3 May 2011 (Wow. Just... wow. I so fail. Anyone still around? -pokes idly at air-)

**A/N:** ...-looks back to previous chapter's A/N- uhh... toldjya there wouldn't be an update like the last. I mean... wow. This one just makes up for that fluke, don't you think? XD

So anyhow, here is (FINALLY) the next chapter of this baby. I also think, in part, that the reason I hesitated in posting this for so long was the fact that I'm not particularly fond of this and the next few chapters... they are needed, but they seem too... I dunno, forced? At any rate, I haven't found a way to rewrite it any better than I originally put it over two years ago, so you're all stuck with this. Eh... hope you enjoy? -smiles brightly-

* * *

_Perfect by nature  
Icons of self-indulgence  
Just what we all need  
More lies about a world that  
never was and never will be  
Oh, how we love you_  
_No flaws when you're pretending_

_Everybody's Fool__, __**Evanescence**_

**Chapter Eight: Everybody's Fool**

* * *

"**What**?"

Voldemort sighs again, and I decide that it's starting to get bloody annoying. "I said before, I have a story for you," he tells me, sounding frustrated in that 'why-won't-you-fucking-**listen**?' sort of way.

"What am I, four?" I respond dryly.

Voldemort glares. "Shut up, will you?"

I shut up.

"Now, you will **listen**, and if you decide that my story is too cock-and-bull for you to believe, I will either Obliviate you and send you back to Dumbledore, or I will kill you – all depending on my mood and what is said between us. Understood?"

I have never heard Voldemort sound so reasonable, nor have I ever heard him sound so… human? This, more than anything he has said, intrigues me enough to listen to what he further has to say.

"Now, when Rubeus Hagrid took you from Godric's Hollow following the incident on Halloween almost fifteen years ago –"

"You call that an **incident**?"

Voldemort glares again. "You will **not** interrupt," he says firmly, and continues: "When Rubeus brought you to Little Whinging, and you were left on your aunt's doorstep, Dumbledore placed a compulsion charm on you."

"**What**?"

Voldemort gives me a Look, though it is slightly softened – I guess he expected a worse reaction than that, though I have trouble doing more than gawk incredulously at the man before me. "A compulsion charm. He waited until he was alone, I assume, and placed upon you a compulsion charm – one that influenced your behavior, molded you a certain way – into hating me, namely, and opposing everything I stood for."

What.

The.

**Fuck**.

I remain speechless, gaping at Voldemort like a moron.

"Wait," I manage to say through the haze of fury clouding my mind – I'm smarter than this, though most would think otherwise. "How could he have done that? Compulsion charms hold too much power to last on their own. They need an – an anchor…" I trail off as I recall what he said earlier about Sirius, as certain pieces of the puzzle start to click into place.

Voldemort sees the points connecting; he nods grimly. "Exactly. Dumbledore staged everything. He knew about Wormtail – how could he not? – and put it in Sirius Black's head that the blame lay solely with him. He riled Black up, drove him half-mad with grief and hate – and the Dementors did the rest. Dumbledore needed him alive, otherwise the spell never would have worked – did you never wonder why Dumbledore never fought to free Sirius sooner, though he must have known of Black's innocence? Did you never wonder why Black was sent to Azkaban instead of put to death, as most were at that time? Did you never wonder why nobody, especially the ever-fair Dumbledore, pressed to give him a trial, no matter how short, as was done then? Dumbledore needed someone he knew would never suspect being the basis of a charm like that – and by the time Black escaped from Azkaban three years ago, he was already mad as a hatter" (hearing this expression fall from Voldemort's lipless mouth almost sends me into convulsions of laughter, despite the topic) "and the spell embedded too deeply into his magical makeup for him to notice it. And when he died…"

Voldemort, who had been orating furiously, grows solemn. "The anchor was lost. All the compulsions Dumbledore had carefully laid out for you were gone, completely demolished. That's why it was so easy for me to take control of your body that night; that's why you blew up at Dumbledore later. You were no longer compelled to be Dumbledore's Golden Boy; you were no longer being forced to behave, think, act a certain way. You were finally given a chance to be the person you should have always been, and that person was infuriated with what Dumbledore has been putting you through – you just weren't yet aware of it."

Voldemort is breathing heavily by the end of his little speech-rant, and I am still speechless. The tale is so insane, so far-fetched…

Just crazy enough to be believable, I decide. It all makes sense, looking back…

"That's why I argued with the Hat…" I mutter, mostly to myself. Voldemort gives me a sort of quizzical look, but I'm too wrapped up to elaborate. Then, as I think of another point, I ask, "Why did he do all this in the first place? I'm assuming, since you already know all this, that you know the reasoning behind it, too."

"You assume correctly," Voldemort replies, eyes cold. "He was ashamed… ashamed of his prodigy gone astray."

"His **prodigy**?"

"Me."

I am shell-shocked for the umpteenth time. It must be Voldemort's special talent, I decide, shocking me into near-catatonia.

"He knew I was of Slytherin's blood, long before I myself did, and he tried to do everything in his power to prevent me from following in my ancestors' footsteps – for there has been more than one Dark Lord Slytherin over the course of history. He ended up smothering me with his views, suffocating me, and to gain some semblance of peace from the old man, I sought refuge in something other than Dumbledore's perfect ideals of Light and Order. In the end, it was his efforts to keep me from my family's nature that led me to their beliefs in the first place – it was his labours that were his undoing."

"All **this** to try to rectify one mistake?" I can't comprehend it. What kind of **idiot** would risk the lives of countless people to make up for one bad egg?

The same idiot who would ruthlessly use a poor boy, broken over and over again, for his own personal gain, I realise, feeling utterly sick. Revulsion wells up in the pit of my stomach, coupled with an emotion I've only ever previously associated with the man sitting on the edge of the (my?) bed.

Hate.

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**A/N 2.0:** ...-pokes at chapter uncertainly- Welp, here 'tis. Now, updates will certainly be reeeally fucking sporadic - having a Life sucks! - but ohmydearsweetbabyjesus if it takes me another two years to update this damn thing I will shoot myself in the face, and then I'll NEVER finish this fic. So, ta for now, and I'll see you (hopefully! -knocks on wood-) soon.


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